Murder on the Citadel
by Randomir
Summary: When a C-Sec officer finds himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, he is quickly caught up in a conspiracy to destroy the friendship between the Citadel and the Alliance, and trigger a war that could spell the end for humanity. Chapter 2 now added.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** _Mass Effect_ and its related characters are the property of BioWare and Electronic Arts. I do not own any part of _Mass Effect_ in any way. The following was written solely for the enjoyment of my readers and myself.

**Murder on the Citadel**

**Chapter One**

The Citadel, Lower Wards

Chora's Den was, as usual, bustling. The small, poorly lit club was packed to the brim with beings looking to have a few drinks, watch the dancers, and forget about the drudgeries of life for a few hours. Merchants, travelers, off-duty C-Sec officers, and many others occupied the central bar and the small booths lining the club's walls. It didn't matter whether you were turian, human, or krogan; as long as you had credits, you were welcome there.

On a normal night, the supple grace of the asari dancers would enthrall every being in the club. However, on this night, even they could not capture the attention of Michael Armstrong.

Armstrong's gaze was directed straight down, the blue-red lights of the Den dimming his verdant eyes as they stared into the untouched glass of elasa in front of him. It had been some time since Maakwa, the volus bartender, had served Armstrong his drink, and still the human had not reached for it.

Lost in his own thoughts, Armstrong was startled by the slap of a hand on his back.

"Hey, what's the problem, buddy?" inquired the human seated next to him. He was dark skinned, a few years younger than Armstrong, and looked as if he had already consumed more than his fair share of Maakwa's finest. "That stuff's not going to drink itself, you know."

Armstrong mumbled an apology and shrugged his shoulders in an ineffective attempt to dislodge the offending man's arm.

"Come on, you're in Chora's Den," the other man continued. "Lighten up!" He finally removed his arm from Armstrong's shoulders and lifted his own glass to his lips. "So what brings you down here, anyway?"

"I'm celebrating an anniversary," Armstrong replied impassively, his eyes riveted to his glass of elasa.

"No kidding?" The drunken man grinned sloppily and lifted his drink in salute. "Happy tidings, my friend, and here's to many more!" He downed the remainder of his beverage and then slammed the empty container down on the surface of the bar.

Seated next to Armstrong's new friend was another human, who rolled his eyes at his associate's behavior. "You're an ass, Jefferson," he remarked. "Don't you know what day this is? It's the tenth anniversary of the fall of Mindoir."

Jefferson blinked stupidly at his friend and then turned to look at Armstrong, his dark eyes widening as realization hit him. "Oh. Hey, I'm real sorry, pal. I didn't—I mean, I had no idea..."

"No," Armstrong interjected. "You didn't." For the first time since he'd sat down, he looked away from his drink, his green eyes flicking to his right so he could take in Jefferson and the other man. They were both dressed in smart, crisp robes befitting diplomats. If Armstrong were to guess, he'd say that they were assistants to Ambassador Thiéry, the Systems Alliance's representative to the Citadel Council.

Jefferson continued to stumble over his own tongue in an attempt to apologize, and Armstrong looked past him to the other man. "Maybe you should make sure he gets home safely," he suggested.

Jefferson's associate nodded in wholehearted agreement. "I think that's a good idea, sir. I apologize for my friend, he doesn't hold his alcohol very well."

"Don't worry about it," said Armstrong. "There's no way either of you could have known."

The pair made a quick exit from Chora's Den, and Armstrong finally picked up his glass of elasa. His eyes scanned the rest of the club, taking in the sight of its less-than-savory clientele. Chora's Den wasn't exactly Armstrong's first choice, but it was either that or the embassy lounge on the Presidium, and he preferred the anonymity afforded to him in the Den. There had been talks of opening a new bar in the Wards, something a bit less sordid than Chora's Den, where a person could get a drink without having to worry about getting his face punched in, but so far, nothing had come of them.

As he looked over the bar, his gaze fell on one of the asari dancers. Her last patron, a turian, had just departed, likely on his way back to his quarters to sleep off the copious amounts of alcohol he had no doubt consumed.

Armstrong froze as he met the asari's eyes. Time seemed to come to a standstill, and the music faded to a distant droning in the back of Armstrong's mind as he and the asari stared across the club at one another. The blue and red lighting gave her soft lavender skin an electric purple tone, which highlighted the markings on her face and the folds of skin covering the top of her head. The corners of her mouth tilted upward in a seductive smile, and then suddenly her clear blue eyes flashed into vast, empty pools of blackness.

Startled, Armstrong finally blinked and looked away. He brought one hand to his forehead and he shook his head, as if he'd just awakened from a dream. When he finally looked to the asari again, he was shocked to find that she had disappeared.

_Well, I think that's my cue to leave,_ Armstrong told himself. He made eye contact with Maakwa and gave him a thankful nod as he got up from his seat and made for the exit. His drink would be charged to an anonymous account, as part of a personal agreement between Armstrong and the volus.

He exited Chora's Den and was immediately relieved as the music dissipated behind the hissing doors. The clicking of his boots echoed in the halls as he made his way down to the nearest elevator. It was late, and by this time, most sensible beings were in their homes, resting up for the next day. The only ones Armstrong expected to see out and about at this time of night were salarians and drunken club goers like Jefferson as they stumbled to find their quarters.

During the lengthy elevator ride, Armstrong found himself thinking back to the captivating asari dancer. He had never been taken with one as he had been with her, and he seriously began to question whether or not he'd actually seen her. She felt more like a figment of Armstrong's imagination than an actual living, breathing person.

His thoughts continued to drift, and he saw Jefferson again, the man's inebriated eyes staring dumbly as he realized what had caused Armstrong's melancholy. The voice of Jefferson's comrade echoed in Armstrong's mind._ "Don't you know what day this is? It's the tenth anniversary of the fall of Mindoir."_

Armstrong sighed and leaned against the side of the elevator, his eyes closing as he allowed himself to remember.

He had grown up on Mindoir, one of humanity's most successful colonies in the Attican Traverse. While Armstrong had been born on Earth, in the crowded Chicago megalopolis, he was still a boy when his parents decided to settle on Mindoir. He had spent half of his childhood there, but knew early on that the farmer's life was not for him.

When he was eighteen, Armstrong returned to Earth to attend the Systems Alliance Military Academy. He'd originally planned on becoming a Marine, but his test scores instead marked him for fighter pilot training. He had been studying at the Academy for about a year when batarian slavers raided Mindoir. Armstrong's parents, his little brother, and his fiancée were all killed in the attack.

Three years later, Armstrong graduated from the Academy and was assigned to the SSV _Charlemagne_. Five years of service on the _Charlemagne_ saw him promoted to Staff Lieutenant and squadron leader just in time for the Alliance raid on Torfan, a retaliatory strike against the batarian-led perpetrators of the Skyllian Blitz in 2176. Armstrong relished the opportunity to strike back at the batarians. His squadron was part of the Alliance vanguard, tasked with taking out Torfan's defenses before they could sound the alarm. They were successful, but Armstrong's squadron suffered massive losses. By the time Command had called them back, Armstrong was the only member of his group still flying.

The _Charlemagne_'s CAG, Commander Blair, tried to convince Armstrong that it wasn't his fault, and Armstrong knew she was right. Fighter pilots knew what they were getting themselves into when they signed up. It was a dangerous job, with one of the highest casualty rates in the Alliance Fleet, but that didn't stop Armstrong from blaming himself. The safety of his pilots was more important to Armstrong than anything else; if he'd had to choose between saving his squadron and accomplishing the mission, he would have chosen the former every time.

The assault on Torfan was a resounding success. After suffering heavy losses, the batarians withdrew from Citadel space and back to their home systems, and the Alliance colonies in the Traverse were safe. But the cost in human lives was too high for Armstrong to bear; less than a month later, he'd tendered his resignation and left the military.

While she wasn't happy about losing one of her best pilots, Commander Blair supported Armstrong's decision and did what she could to help him out. She contacted Ambassador Thiéry at the Citadel and recommended Armstrong for a position with Citadel Security. After reviewing Armstrong's service record, Thiéry agreed with Blair, and forwarded Armstrong's name to C-Sec, where he had been working for a little more than a year.

His time with C-Sec thus far had been mostly uneventful. There had been a few minor incidents, but nothing particularly serious. Life on the Citadel was quiet and peaceful, and it was so huge that one could easily lose their self in it. It was the perfect place for anyone who wanted to disappear and get lost in the crowd.

The elevator chimed as it came to a stop, and Armstrong opened his eyes once more. He blinked against the Presidium's simulated sunlight, wondering briefly whose idea it was to keep it that way despite that most of the denizens who populated the Citadel's top level were now asleep. He slipped his hands into his pockets and began the long walk to his apartment, where he would finally crawl into bed and fall asleep, his only respite from his past. Armstrong was certain that he dreamed about Mindoir and Torfan, but he was lucky enough to never remember them.

Before Armstrong could get very far, the stillness was shattered by a piercing cry, a harsh scream of absolute terror that was finally silenced by one loud, final gunshot. Armstrong was off before the echo of the gunshot had faded. Adrenaline pumped through his system, and for a brief moment he felt like he was back in the Academy, being rousted from his bunk by his drill sergeant. He reached behind his back and pulled out the Edge pistol he kept hidden under his jacket, the firearm shifting out of its compact state and into combat mode as Armstrong rushed in the direction of the scream.

He rounded a corner and came upon the body of Jefferson, the drunken embassy worker he'd encountered in Chora's Den. The young man was lying prone on the ground, one hand clutched over his chest as a pool of blood spread beneath him, staining the pristine innocence of the Presidium walkway.

Something flashed in the corner of Armstrong's eye. He spun around to face whatever it was, bringing his pistol to bear. "Freeze!" he yelled out, to no avail. Armstrong couldn't guess who or what the killer was. They were moving too fast and wearing clothing that obscured their physical features.

Following the killer with his eyes, he reoriented his aim and managed to squeeze off one shot just as they were about to escape. He swore as the magnetically propelled bullet missed, and the murderer disappeared.

Armstrong was about to give chase before remembering Jefferson. He checked to make sure the area was clear before moving toward him. The last thing he wanted was to be ambushed by whoever it was that had shot the poor man. Satisfied that the assassin was gone, Armstrong quickly moved to inspect Jefferson, dropping to one knee beside him and placing two fingers over his carotid artery, searching for a pulse.

Nothing. Jefferson was already gone. A quick visual inspection of the body told Armstrong that the bullet that killed Jefferson had ripped right through his heart. Whoever did this was familiar enough with human anatomy to know how to bring down a strong, relatively healthy young man with one shot.

"Don't move!"

Armstrong looked over his shoulder to see a pair of human C-Sec patrolmen standing at the end of the walkway, both with assault rifles aimed directly at him. They both looked fairly young; Armstrong wouldn't have been surprised if they turned out to be rookies out on one of their first patrols.

"Drop your weapon and move away from the body!" ordered the patrolman who hadn't spoken up yet. She looked just as nervous as her partner, however, and Armstrong did as she instructed, slowly setting his pistol down and stepping away from Jefferson.

He turned to face the pair, showing them his weaponless hands. "Listen," he began, speaking slowly and calmly. "My name is Michael Armstrong. I'm with Citadel Security. Let me just show you my identification—"

"Shut up!" the male patrolman yelped. Both he and his partner stepped towards Armstrong, the woman moving to check on Jefferson while the young man kept his weapon trained on Armstrong. Armstrong's jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed briefly. These two kids were going to make this whole thing worse than it already was.

"Take it easy," he urged. "Just relax and let me explain—"

"I said shut up!" the patrolman repeated. He grabbed Armstrong, spun him about, and pushed him face-first into the wall. Armstrong grunted with the impact, and the officer quickly began to pat him down.

"Would you just give me a chance to tell you what the hell's going on?" Armstrong demanded, looking back over his shoulder at the officer. He knew he should have been calmer about this, but stumbling on a dead body didn't exactly make one see things clearly.

Thinking that Armstrong was about to attack him, the C-Sec officer panicked and smashed the butt of his rifle into Armstrong's face. Crying out in pain, Armstrong saw stars as he fell to his knees and then collapsed onto the floor, the Presidium swirling around him in a cacophony of color and sound. He heard the officer with Jefferson call for medical assistance, while the officer who had hit Armstrong began reading him his rights, before finally succumbing to oblivion's serene embrace.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Citadel Security, Detention Ward

"Let's go over it one more time," said Venari Pallin, Executor of the Citadel Security Services, as he paced back and forth in front of Armstrong, his hands clasped behind his back. There were two guardsmen flanking him, both turians. They held standard issue rifles in their hands and were watching Armstrong very carefully.

"I don't know what else I can tell you," Armstrong protested. He was seated on the bench in one of C-Sec's detention cells, where he had been taken to after being subdued by the patrolman on the Presidium. He had been given a cooling packet to curb the swelling over his left cheek, where Armstrong had been stricken. His cheekbone hadn't been fractured, but he would have a nasty looking bruise for the next few days.

"Humor me."

Armstrong repressed a very frustrated sigh. Pallin had been grilling him for the past hour, making him explain his version of events over and over again. Armstrong wasn't an idiot; he knew that Pallin was trying to get him to mess his story up, searching for holes in the human's logic. He couldn't blame Pallin—had he been in the turian's position, he would have used the same tactic. That didn't mean that it wasn't extremely annoying, however.

He ran a hand through his tousled light brown hair. He must have looked like hell at that moment. "All right. After my duty shift ended at twenty-three-hundred hours, I decided to stop by Chora's Den for a drink," Armstrong began.

"Where you encountered Mister Jefferson," Pallin supplied.

"Yes," Armstrong confirmed, for what seemed like the hundredth time. "He was sitting next to me. I don't have a clue how long he'd been there, all of a sudden he just started talking to me, like we were old buddies out having a drink together."

"He interrupted you while you were trying to have a peaceful drink," added Pallin. "I imagine that must have been quite annoying."

Armstrong gave Pallin a look illustrating that he knew what the turian was trying to do. "It wasn't, really. Jefferson had just had a few too many, and he was trying to be friendly."

"And you brushed him off," Pallin pointed out. "Had you met Jefferson before? Was there a prior relationship between the two of you that may have prompted him to approach you?"

"No," Armstrong answered with a quick shake of his head. "I'd never seen him before tonight. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I don't know why anyone would have wanted to kill him."

Pallin nodded as he continued his pacing. "Unfortunately, for some people the decision to take a life can come all too easily. Sometimes they just react the wrong way to someone and they don't like it. Other times, it's because the victim angered the killer in some manner. It can be something major, such as an attack on them or a loved one, or something very minor, like bumping into them on the walkway."

Armstrong blinked and looked up at Pallin. He knew all of this, so why did the turian feel the need to explain it to him? "What are you getting at, sir?"

Pallin stopped walking and spun to face Armstrong. "You grew up on Mindoir, correct?"

He swallowed bitterly. "That's right."

The turian nodded. "Attacked ten years ago by batarians. Most of its populace were killed, the rest sold off as slaves. It's fortunate that you were on Earth at the time, Armstrong."

"Yeah," Armstrong uttered, his voice completely lacking any feeling. "Lucky me."

"Still, both of your parents and your brother died on that day, along with your future wife," Pallin continued. "That must have been difficult for you." He looked at Armstrong, and the two stared at one another for a long moment, their eyes boring into one another's. Armstrong fought to keep his devoid of any emotion, but Pallin's words cut deeply.

Finally, Pallin broke eye contact, his mandibles working as he looked down at the floor of the cell. "It's understandable that one would carry a grudge after something like that. Sometimes a being will let that grudge fester in their heart, and it turns into something else. Eventually that feeling consumes them so entirely that they cannot control themselves any longer. They forget who it was exactly that slighted them, and instead lash out at the first person who draws their ire."

Armstrong knew where this was going, and he felt his anger begin to swell at the insinuation. "Executor Pallin, I would never—"

"Perhaps poor Mister Jefferson was that person this time," Pallin interrupted. "Today marks the tenth year since Mindoir, after all, and you humans do so love to place special significance on an event when it hits a nice, round number."

"Sir..." Armstrong said, the warning evident in his voice.

Pallin ignored Armstrong and continued. "It isn't exactly uncommon in your species, Armstrong. Humanity is a rash, impulsive breed; more often than not, you allow your emotions to get the better of you. Perhaps after seeing the faces of your loved ones flashing through your mind over and over again as you wallowed in self-pity, you finally snapped."

"That's enough!" Armstrong snarled. He began to get to his feet, but the whine of the guardsmen's rifles as they were aimed at him quickly brought him back to his senses.

Pallin stared long and hard at Armstrong. "Thank you for illustrating my point," he said, bowing his head. He glanced at the two guards. "We're done here."

They nodded and shouldered their weapons again before stepping out of the cell, followed by Pallin. Armstrong slumped back onto the bench and looked forlornly at Pallin.

"I suggest you try to get some sleep," the turian told him. "I'll have some more questions for you tomorrow, after we've conducted a complete forensic examination of the crime scene." He nodded to one of the guards, and a kinetic barrier sprung up a moment later, the electric blue field humming merrily as it separated Armstrong from the rest of the world.

Armstrong leaned forward and placed his head in his hands, squeezing his eyes shut tightly as he tried to calm himself down. He needed to keep a clear head if he was going to prove his innocence. He couldn't let Pallin string him along like that again. The turian thrived on fooling his suspects into making mistakes, and Armstrong had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker.

Eventually, he managed to soothe the roiling thoughts in his mind and lay back on the bench. He doubted that sleep would come, but it was better than letting his thoughts eat him up. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, hoping that this was all just a very bad dream.

* * *

Armstrong awoke with a start. The kinetic barrier closing off his cell had suddenly gone out, and the noise generated by its deactivation had woken him up. He blinked his eyes rapidly and groaned as he slowly sat himself up on the uncomfortable bench. He rubbed his hands over his eyes and then ran them through his tousled light brown hair. When he was with the Alliance Military, Armstrong had kept his hair trimmed short, but had allowed it to grow out some since resigning. Now he began to regret that decision as he struggled to get his hair back under some semblance of control. No matter what Executor Pallin or anyone else believed, he was still an officer with C-Sec, and he had a standard to live up to.

Finally, Armstrong felt like he looked at least somewhat presentable, and he laid his hands on the bench as he looked up at his guest. "Okay, Pallin, let's get this over with." He jumped in surprise when he saw that the person he'd addressed was not, in fact, Pallin, as he'd assumed, but someone else entirely.

The lavender-skinned asari from Chora's Den stared back at Armstrong, her head tilting to the side as her gaze swept over him. Several moments passed between the two of them, with neither one uttering a word, before the asari finally broke the silence. "You are Michael Armstrong," she said.

"So they tell me," Armstrong replied as he leaned his back against the wall, his eyebrows knotting together as he looked up at the asari. "I didn't know C-Sec hired private dancers for their guests now. I must have missed that memo."

The asari answered him with a small, polite smile. "I am not a dancer, Detective Armstrong."

"You sure had me fooled, sweetheart," Armstrong looked the asari over. She was no longer dressed—if one could call it that—in the dancer's outfit he'd seen her wearing in Chora's Den. Instead she was clad in a black, form-fitting bodysuit, with a pistol attached to her waist. If Armstrong were to guess, he would say that she was wearing some sort of special operations uniform. "What do you want?"

"You, Armstrong," said the asari. She turned her back to him and gracefully walked to the open end of his cell, leaning out and peering down the corridor. "Come on," she added a second later. "It's time to go."

Armstrong blinked in surprise, but he stood up anyway. "I'm being released?"

"In a manner of speaking." The asari glanced over her shoulder at Armstrong before turning and heading down the corridor.

Without thinking, Armstrong followed her. It took him a second to realize they were heading in the wrong direction. "Hey, the exit's back that way," he informed her, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder.

The asari didn't stop. "I'm aware of that, Detective. Unfortunately, so are the guards."

Armstrong stopped in his tracks. "You're not with C-Sec?"

She turned to face him, one of her eyebrows arching elegantly. "Do I look like I work for Citadel Security, Mister Armstrong?" she inquired.

He frowned and shook his head. "I don't understand. Who are you?"

The asari frowned. "We don't have time for this," she told him, impatience slowly creeping into her voice. "If you don't leave with me now, you may never get out of here."

"What are you talking about?" Armstrong asked. "Forensics must have finished their examinations by now. They'll know it wasn't me who shot Jefferson."

His would-be savior favored him with a bemused smile. "Will they?" she wondered.

Armstrong stared at her, comprehension slowly dawning on his face. His jaw clenched angrily, and he took a step towards the asari. "What did you do?" he demanded.

She held a hand up to halt him. "I'd stop right there if I were you, Armstrong, unless you want a bullet in one of your knees. No offense, but I really don't want to have to carry you out of here."

He stopped, but continued to glare at the woman. "What. Did. You. Do?" he repeated through a snarl.

"I replaced the serial number on your pistol to match in the registry with the bullet they're preparing to remove from Kevin Jefferson's body."

"You what?!" Armstrong nearly shouted with rage. He started moving towards the asari again, but stopped short as she drew her sidearm and aimed it at him.

"Please don't," the asari said. "Like I said, we don't have much time. I need you to leave with me, right now, or we may never find Jefferson's killer."

"So your plan is to frame me and then kidnap me at gunpoint?!"

She tilted her head to the side again, and looked at Armstrong with the same curious interest she had when she'd first stepped into his cell. "Yes. If you have a problem with that, you can go back to your cell. In the morning, Executor Pallin will have you tried for murder in the first degree. It will be a short trial." She holstered her sidearm. "Make your choice, Mister Armstrong."

Armstrong looked back down the hallway, weighing his options. He didn't trust this asari one bit, but the evidence already had him as a murderer. How much more harm could becoming a fugitive possibly cause him?

He turned to face the asari again and nodded begrudgingly. "Fine, we'll do it your way," he conceded. "Let's go."

The asari nodded and started back down the corridor. Armstrong was right on her heels, periodically glancing behind them to make sure they weren't being followed. The last thing he needed right now was to get caught in a crossfire between officers who believed he was a killer and a psychotic asari commando. He followed her around several corners, periodically glancing at the labeling on the walls. He soon realized where they were headed.

"How do you know about the emergency lift?" Armstrong asked her. Found in the deepest part of C-Sec, the emergency lift was used only for evacuation of personnel during a crisis. During normal operations, it was locked, and only the Executor and his second-in-command had the code to access it.

She smiled at him as she quickly inputted a code into the lift's access panel. The lift slid open a nanosecond later, and she stepped inside. "You'd be surprised by how much I know, Mister Armstrong." She folded her arms across her chest as she stared at him. "Are you coming or not?"

Armstrong blinked stupidly and followed the asari into the lift. She pressed a button, and the lift's door closed behind Armstrong, the floor shaking gently beneath his feet as it started moving.

As soon as they were underway, Armstrong whirled to face the asari. "Okay, we're out. Now are you going to tell me who the hell you are, or should I just make up a name for you?"

His mysterious liberator looked up at him and grinned, clearly enjoying Armstrong's confusion. "Fair enough, Mister Armstrong. You've been a good boy so far, I suppose you've earned a treat." She bowed her head in greeting. "My name is Nelara Ranasi. I'm an agent of the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance branch of the Citadel."


End file.
